A strange sound filled the air. Malak was laughing—a high-pitched titter that reminded Aaron more of a small child amused by cartoon antics on television than the laugh of a bloodthirsty warrior. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, Malak’s laughter ended, and where there had been nothing in his armored hand, there were suddenly razor-sharp throwing stars. Aaron heard their metal surfaces grinding together as Malak bent forward and let the blades fly. He spread his wings and took to the air, the stars finding targets instead in the bodies of the Powers’ angels that were unlucky enough to be standing nearby watching the conflict unfold.
He glided backward, keeping a cautious eye on the armored warrior already on the move. Not paying attention to his surroundings, his back hit up against something solid and instinctively a sword grew in his hand. He spun, hacking at what was behind him. Angels scattered in a flutter of wings and trench coats, hissing menacingly, as Aaron’s blade passed through the steel poles of a basketball hoop, sending the backboard crashing to the gymnasium floor.
Distracted, Aaron didn’t notice Malak until it was too late. The armored warrior tossed a net made of thin, flexible strands of the same black metal as his weapons and ensnared the Nephilim. The weighted ends of the net restricted Aaron’s wings, and he fell to the floor atop the downed backboard. Eager to vanquish his prey, Malak charged; a dagger caked with the blood of earlier kills clutched in his armored hand.
Aaron concentrated on a new weapon, and another sword came to be in his grasp, melting through the tight weave of the net. But before he could free himself completely, Malak was upon him. He tried to turn away, but his movement was hindered by the net and the weight of his armored assailant, and the dagger’s blade bit deep into his already wounded shoulder. Aaron cried out, thrashing violently beneath Malak’s attack and managing to knock him to one side. With his sword of fire, he sliced upward through the metal mesh, cutting an opening big enough to crawl through.
As he sloughed off the net Aaron watched with muted horror: His armored attacker brought the knife blade to the face of his helmet, the tip of a pink tongue snaked from the mask and licked the Nephilim’s blood from the weapon’s edge. For an instant he wondered what kind of creature resided behind the concealing helmet of scarlet, recalling Camael’s haunting explanation of the Powers’ use of the handicapped. He thought of his foster brother, steeling his resolve against his foe and the others he would eventually have to face. Though his shoulder burned as if on fire, Aaron held his sword tightly and slowly pointed the fiery blade across the gym where his opponent waited.
“You,” Aaron said in a booming voice filled with authority. “Let’s finish this.”
Malak giggled again. His knife disappeared and he withdrew a double-bladed battle-ax from the air to replace it. The warrior hefted the heavy weapon in one hand. “Bootiful,” he said through his mask of red metal.
Bootiful.
The word hit him like one of Lehash’s flaming bullets, and Aaron lowered his weapon in shock.
“What did you say?” he asked the scarlet-garbed warrior.
Again Malak giggled, that high-pitched titter that put his nerves on edge.
“What’s the matter, Nephilim?” he heard Verchiel ask with mock concern.
Aaron chanced a glance at the heavenly monster. He was standing before the bleachers, hands clasped behind his back, a throng of angel soldiers surrounding him. One of them had Vilma slung over its shoulder, as if she were nothing more than an afterthought.
“Has something plucked a chord of familiarity?”
Malak was suddenly before him, swinging the blade of his double-headed ax. Aaron sprang back from the vicious blade, studying his attacker’s movement, the single word still echoing dangerously in his head.
Bootiful.
The ax buried itself deep into the shiny, hardwood floor, but Malak quickly retrieved it, coming at him again. The warrior swung his weapon of war, and this time Aaron responded in kind, deflecting the ax with his sword of fire.
“Why did you say that word?” he hissed, launching his own assault against Malak.
The warrior giggled, childlike, as he ducked beneath the swipe of Aaron’s blade.
“Why did you say it?” he shouted frantically, an idea almost too horrible for him to comprehend beginning to form in his mind. His attack upon the Powers’ assassin grew wilder, driving Malak back across the gym.
Malak countered as fast as Aaron struck, blocking and avoiding the weapon of heavenly fire with ease.
Verchiel was laughing, a grating sound, like the cawing of some carrion bird.
Aaron hacked downward with all his might, but Malak stepped aside, bringing his armored foot down upon the blade, trapping it against the floor as he lashed out with his ax. Aaron felt the bite of the razor-sharp blade as it cut through the fabric of his shirt and the skin beneath. He jumped back, leaving his pinned sword to disperse in a flash. Slowly he lowered his hand to his stomach, then brought it up to his face. His fingertips were stained the color of his attacker’s armor.
The sight of his own blood and the unsettling sound of Verchiel’s laughter served only to inflame his rage. He felt the power of the Nephilim inside him and it coursed through his muscles—through the entire fiber of his being. If he were to survive this conflict, he had to trust the warrior’s nature he had inherited. He had to defeat this armored foe, but still he could not get past the implication of Verchiel’s words.
Has something plucked a chord of familiarity?
Malak came at him again, battle-ax at the ready, and Aaron sprang forward to meet the attack. He dove low, connecting with the warrior’s armor-plated legs, and they crashed to the floor in a thrashing pile. Malak held on to his ax and tried to use it to drive his opponent from atop him, but Aaron kept close, rendering the weapon useless. The power of the Nephilim shrieked a cry of battle, and Aaron found himself caught up in a wave of might that flooded his body, his every sense. This must be what Camael was talking about, the unification of the human and the angelic. It was wonderful, and for the first time since learning of his angelic heritage, Aaron Corbet felt truly complete.
He fought to his feet and wrenched the battle-ax from Malak’s grasp.
“This is over,” he growled, looming over the armored warrior, ax in hand, glaring at Verchiel and his followers around the gym. The sigils upon his body pulsed with a life all their own, and he spread his wings to their full span. What a sight I must be, he thought, inundated by feelings of perfection.
“Yes, you are right,” Verchiel agreed with a casual nod. “I tire of these games. Malak, show your face.”
Aaron almost screamed for the warrior to stop, not wanting to see what he already suspected. Malak reached up and yanked the scarlet helmet from his head.
“Do you see who you have been fighting, Nephilim?” Verchiel asked, moving closer with his angelic throng.
“No,” Aaron cried, unable to tear his gaze away from the familiar features of the young man lying before him. He did not know this person, but then again, he did. “You son of bitch, what have you done?”
“With the magick of the Archons, we have transformed what by human standards was considered limited in its usefulness, into a precision weapon.”